


Adversus Solem Ne Loquitor

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [11]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Frottage, Historical, M/M, Medieval Ireland, Religion, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 02:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20481587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: As they make their way up the hill that overlooks the farm, he sees Diarmuid looking back over his shoulder a few times.  "I wonder if I might have had a life like that," he finally says.  "But I trust God planted me where he thought best," Diarmuid continues, flashing him a smile.The road narrows as it takes them over hills and mountains, eventually thinning to little more than a track in places.  There are no farms here, the soil is too stony, but in the distance, sheep dot the hills, and even the occasional cattle.  Perhaps they can share a herdsman's fire tonight.





	Adversus Solem Ne Loquitor

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.
> 
> (Again, sorry it has been so long between updates. Only recently has my overworked situation ended, but we still have the ongoing hellscape of US politics.)

Adversus solem ne loquitor -- do not speak against the sun. (Do not deny an obvious truth.)

* * *

He fishes for the jar of salve. His hip aches abominably. Perhaps because he doesn't feel any imminent sense of danger, his flesh reminds him of other needs and wants them tended to. Next to him, Diarmuid splashes in the trough, yelping at the chill, but scrubs until his face is pink and clean and his riot of curls is briefly tamed by wetness.

The sun has not yet burned off the morning mist, but it is time for them to take to the road. He ponders giving the last of their cheese to Dorcas, but chooses instead a knife from one of the men they killed. It's plain work, no distinguishing marks that he can see. A good all purpose blade. Her eyes light up at the gift -- good knives are dear to come by. She presses a little cross carefully plaited out of straw into his hand in return. "Mussn't cut any good will between us," she explains.

As they make their way up the hill that overlooks the farm, he sees Diarmuid looking back over his shoulder a few times. "I wonder if I might have had a life like that," he finally says. "But I trust God planted me where he thought best," Diarmuid continues, flashing him a smile.

The road narrows as it takes them over hills and mountains, eventually thinning to little more than a track in places. There are no farms here, the soil is too stony, but in the distance, sheep dot the hills, and even the occasional cattle. Perhaps they can share a herdsman's fire tonight.

They have found no herdsman or even a lone crofter when the clouds roll in, but just before the worst of the rain starts pelting down, they find a herder's camp -- a shelter of wattle and turf on the lee side of a stony outcrop. It's snug once they get the saddle and the rest of their gear off the horse and out of the rain, but the roof keeps the downpour off, and the small supply of dried dung and wood is enough for a quick fire and a bit of brose. Diarmuid banks the ashes after they've eaten.

"Are we going anywhere in particular?" Diarmuid asks.

"Cill Airne," he replies.

"Oh!" Diarmuid's face lights up, "Have you been?" At his nod, Diarmuid continues, "I wonder if it is as beautiful as they say."

He can't stop the smile that curves his mouth. Everything that they've lived through, and Diarmuid still seeks to find the best, not thinking of Cill Airne, as an important religious center, or as one of the seats of the MacCarthy Mor, a place of power, but somehow, out of everything Diarmuid has ever heard tell of Cill Airne, first in his mind is its famed beauty.

There's not much to do after they've finished their food and he has seen to the horse, except prepare to bunk down for the night. The rain has passed, but there's not enough day left to risk further travel and the possibility of a night without shelter. No sooner than he and Diarmuid finish spreading their cloaks on the ground, than Diarmuid's lips are on him, insistent, as sweet as they are hungry-hot, while at the same time Diarmuid's hands skitter and scrabble across his chest, not certain if they want to stroke the broad expanse, or clench in his shirt.

This is not the fantasy he has -- that involves a warm day in a green meadow -- but at least they need not be so hasty or furtive.

The heat coming from the ashes makes the lean-to warm enough, but only just, to pull his top off, and get Diarmuid out of his habit, which leaves him in his breeches and Diarmuid in his loincloth.

Diarmuid's hands reach for him, but he stays them and whispers, "Slowly" under his breath, before claiming those lips in a slow, savoring kiss.

"I'm _trying_," Diarmuid says when they break. "But I feel as if I'm coming off a fast just as a loaf of bread is coming out of the oven."

He chortles at the image. "I am a big loaf," he wants to say, but instead kisses his way along Diarmuid's jawline, rooting for the spot. He knows he's found it when Diarmuid gives a sharp _OHHHH!_ and arches in pleasure.

He vows yet again that one day he will love Diarmuid properly, in a real bed, clean and freshly made. In the meantime, he untucks Diarmuid's loincloth, taking Diarmuid's length in hand. Diarmuid reaches for him, but he captures that roving hand in his, brings it to his lips, and kisses it, as Diarmuid can't stop squirming and thrusting, seeking his pleasure.

"I want -- I want --" Diarmuid gasps, but can't connect the next words when he reaches back down again and gives a firm stroke. He plants the most gossamer of kisses on Diarmuid's forehead in response. He knows. _Oh, how he knows_.

It doesn't take long. Diarmuid is so very eager-young, and swiftly spends with a soft, choked cry and a full body shudder. But as soon as Diarmuid's caught his breath, he says, "Now you." Pressing him back, Diarmuid's hands clamber for their prize, but, as soon as it's freed, Diarmuid pauses and studies it intently in the dim light that filters in through a break in the clouds. It dawns on him then that until this moment it's all been frantic fumbling in the dead of night, and that though Diarmuid has seen him naked many times, he's never seen him like this.

An impish smile curving his lips indicates that Diarmuid seems to like what's before him. Yet he reaches out for it almost hesitantly. To both their amusement, it jumps of its own accord as Diarmuid runs a finger from root to tip, pausing to gather the fluid welling from the slit. He does not try to contain his groan as Diarmuid cups it gently, and then starts lightly gliding his hand up and down, the look in his great dark eyes a mixture of delight and calculation.

Diarmuid shifts then, and those lips find his while that nimble hand starts chafing away, setting a steady pace, but even now he can feel Diarmuid starting to rise again, pressed against his hip. He's so young, he's like a well-trained crossbowman: nock, loose, and prime to shoot the next bolt … all in a matter of minutes.

He guides Diarmuid atop him, lining their cocks up, groaning and squirming as Diarmuid, now fully hard and ready, starts rutting against him. He feels his eyes roll back in his head at the delicious heat and friction. He wants it to last for hours -- he can tell that Diarmuid's taking pains to make it last -- but in the end, he's the one who can no longer wait. He clenches Diarmuid, rolls them, and starts grinding away, his hands clenched on those narrow hips, Diarmuid's legs rising up around him, until, at last, they both spend. He collapses atop Diarmuid, savoring the full-body closeness of him and the rich smell of the curls tickling the edge of his nose.

"_A chuisle mo chroí_, you have to move," Diarmuid says with breathless urgency after a few moments, "I can't breathe."

He rolls to the side and tenderly brushes the sweat-damp curls back from Diarmuid's brow. 

_A chuisle mo chroí._ The beat of my heart. 

Yes, he thinks. Now, and forever.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is the source for the Irish Gaelic used](https://www.quora.com/What-does-mo-cuishle-mean-in-Gaelic) \-- sorry that it's modern and not medieval, but I couldn't find that particular phrase in the sources I've used for Old Irish Gaelic and I didn't want to try and stitch it together from various words. Celtic languages are rather different from the Germanic ones I've studied.


End file.
